Paris Kiss (19 page)

Camille bent down and took hold of one end of the planter. ‘Help me move this.' By the time we had heaved it over to a back wall, spilling dirt all over the marble floor, we were bent double laughing.

I grabbed Camille and made her turn round. ‘Look, there are two men looking at your
Giganti
. Let's go and listen to what they're saying.' We crept up and stood behind a fat man with a red face and extravagant whiskers who was waving his programme and holding forth. ‘This one is by a pupil of Rodin, I can tell.' He leafed through the programme. ‘Ah, yes, I thought so. It says here, Camille Claudel. Shows promise, wouldn't you say, Jean-Louis? Well, come on, you're the critic,' he boomed at his companion, a bird-like man with a beady look.

Camille looked elated and I squeezed her hand.

The bird-like man said: ‘You have a good eye, Gaston. There is a certain fluidity and lightness of touch, but you can clearly see Rodin's influence, it's unmistakable.' He bent in for a closer look, his hooked nose nearly brushing
Giganti
's leonine features. Straightening up, he gave a limp wave. ‘This is merely an insipid copy of his robust style, too tentative, lacks Rodin's masculine vigour. But what do you expect from a woman? I have always maintained that the female sex is not capable of sculpting. Better they should stick to the decorative arts such as découpage and embroidery. And, if they must paint, let them dabble in watercolours – landscapes and flowers, or sentimental domestic subjects suited to their delicate sensibilities. Not only do these feeble creatures lack the physical strength required by sculpture, it is scientifically proven that their brains are smaller and if they persist in this unnatural pursuit they could lose their minds – a hideous fate. Only men,
mon vieux
, are capable of withstanding the physical and spiritual demands made by Art.'

I'd been hearing this kind of tosh all my life, but to hear it at the Salon where the admission itself qualified Camille to be judged on equal merit was an outrage. The fury that gripped me was for both of us: for Camille and me, and for all women. Can't a woman stand on her own two feet? Must she always be at the whim of men? I had been tossed between William and Georges for too long. No more.
Now I wanted to avenge my friend, to knock this snivelling wretch to the ground, and shake his bony little frame until he begged for mercy. I took a step towards him, but Camille held me back, her face pale.

The bird was speaking again. ‘Come, Gaston, I'll show you the real thing.' The little man led him to a tight group gathered round another sculpture and we followed. There were gasps and a few sniggers from the viewers. Camille pushed her way to the front of the crowd, pulling me behind her. We came upon one of the most remarkable sculptures I've ever seen. In all my years, I've yet to see a work of art that affected me more. A young woman, carved in snowy marble, knelt before us. Her hair hung loose to hide her face and the nape of her neck was laid bare. Her pale stone back curved like an exquisite guitar down to her perfect buttocks. She was at once sensuously abandoned and vulnerable. I recognised the delicately muscled back and waist: it was Camille.

My eyes widened and Camille nodded. ‘It's beautiful. You're beautiful,' I whispered.

She whispered back. ‘Do you like the pose? It was my idea.' We shared a smile before she turned her head sharply. The irritating little critic's hand was hovering over the nude as if he were about to touch her.

‘Regard, if you will, the continuous line, the expression of emotion through the contorted pose,' he said in a pompous voice to his wider audience. ‘I pronounce this one of Rodin's finest works.'

‘It's certainly, er, arousing,' said the fat man, his eyes bulging. He licked his lips. ‘Rodin must be bedding her, knowing his reputation.'

‘I hear she's his latest mistress, a pupil no less, barely out of the schoolroom, the rogue,' said a man with a moustache. More sniggers.

The critic smiled unpleasantly. ‘The little slut clearly has hidden talents. Or not so hidden now, eh Gaston?' He nudged his fat friend, who wheezed with laughter and stroked the marble girl's bottom and made a panting face. Camille reached out and smacked his hand away. He looked at her in astonishment. The bird's eyes narrowed. ‘Aren't you…?'

‘Mademoiselle Claudel is quite right. I regret it is not permitted to touch the sculptures. Salon rules.' Rodin's cane struck the stone flagstones and the crowd parted for him. He stood in front of the critic and glared at him through his spectacles. I held my breath: was he going to strike him as I had longed to? The little man clearly thought so because he seemed to shrink away. Rodin raised his hand, and instead held it out to the critic. ‘Aren't you Jean-Louis Breton? I often read your articles in the art gazette.'

Breton hesitated but Rodin's expression was mild and he hesitantly shook his hand. ‘It's a great honour, Monsieur Rodin. Allow me to express my boundless admiration for your work. And this piece, it's simply breathtaking. The line! The luminescence!'

‘Thank you.' Rodin clapped him on the back and the bird coughed. ‘Now, I hope you have not overlooked the work of my most gifted pupil, Mademoiselle Claudel.' He walked over to Camille's bust of
Giganti
and the crowd followed, as if mesmerised. ‘She has a unique style. I showed her where to look for gold, but the gold she finds is her own. Mademoiselle Claudel is certainly worthy of a review all of her own in that newspaper you write for, don't you think, Monsieur Breton? Allow me to introduce her.' He beckoned to Camille, who scowled and didn't move. Rodin waited. After a moment, she walked towards him.

Breton bowed, nearly scraping the floor with his long nose. ‘Mademoiselle, may I congratulate you on a fine piece. Such talent in one so young is astonishing indeed. This piece is exquisite, exquisite.'

Camille's voice was cold. ‘You don't find it insipid?'

Breton looked nervously at Rodin and back to Camille. ‘Insipid?' he stammered. ‘Not at all! It has sheer animal power, if you excuse the expression. And the workmanship is extremely accomplished. You must have a skilled
practicien
at your
atelier
.'

Camille put her hands on her hips and glared at Breton. ‘Are you mad? I wouldn't allow anyone near my sculptures. This is all my own work.' She jabbed at her chest. ‘
Je me répéte.
All. My. Own. Work.'

Rodin put a hand on both our shoulder and regarded us with pride. ‘I am fortunate to have two gifted pupils working in my
atelier
now, mark their names well, Monsieur, for your articles: Camille Claudel and Jessie Lipscomb. I urge you to review the work of these rising stars. You have a duty to tell your readers about two of the best young artists in Paris.'

He had remembered me after all! Rodin began answering a chorus of questions from an adoring group of women viewers who had clustered around him and I turned excitedly to Camille. We had triumphed and it was one in the eye for that odious little man! But it was never going to be that easy. Behind Rodin's back, the critic smiled slyly at Camille and winked at her.

‘You are indeed fortunate to have such a mentor, Mademoiselle. I can assure you, your name will be appearing in my newspaper tomorrow. Not in the arts reviews – no space, I'm afraid – but I'm sure my dear colleague Gaston has room in his gossip column.'

The two journalists leered at her, tipped their hats and walked away, laughing and slapping each other on the back.

Camille clenched her fists and glowered at their retreating backs. ‘
Salauds
.' She spat and a woman walking past shrank back.

The nightmare I had dreaded was beginning to unfurl and Camille's reputation was heading for disaster. A spiteful item in the gossip column in one of the best-read papers in Paris would be the end of her. Camille was about to fall and there was nothing I could do to help her. She shouldn't have provoked that ghastly man, but she had been pushed beyond endurance. No male artist would have to put up with such insults.

Camille was trembling and I had to half-drag her to the exit, pushing past knots of viewers. Georges spotted us and called out. When we ignored him he hurried after us. Outside, we sat on the steps, careless of the dirt on our skirts and the legs hurrying past. Camille was weeping openly now, and people were looking at us.

I put my arms around her to shield her from their curious stares. ‘Hush now, hush,' I murmured. My neck grew wet with her tears.

Georges crouched down beside us. I was grateful for his presence. He took out a handkerchief and wiped Camille's face. ‘What happened, is she unwell?' he asked me.

‘It was Rodin's sculpture. There was this horrible man, a critic. He was vile, just vile.'

His face was grim. ‘I saw the sculpture. All Paris will see it and know who the model was. Tongues will wag.' Georges spoke to the onlookers. ‘Please, give us some air.' He lifted Camille into his arms and walked with her towards a line of cabs, where the drivers were smoking and waiting by their horses. He helped me in after Camille and shut the door.

I spoke to him through the window and held onto his arm. ‘Aren't you coming too?'

He ignored my question. ‘This critic, what was his name?'

‘Breton. Jean-Louis Breton.'

He banged the side of the
fiacre
with the flat of his hand and the driver shook the horse's reigns.

As we moved off, I called: ‘Georges, what are you going to do?'

‘I'm going to sort out this Breton.'

Chapter 33

Rodin's studio

August 1885

The
practiciens
were in a tight circle, sharing a tattered copy of the art gazette. One of the brutes, the worst one, Rodolphe, who had had it in for Camille and me from the start, saw us arriving and nudged the man next to him.

‘Here she is, the
exciting new talent
. She must have been kissing someone else's arse to give Rodin's a rest.' He waved the newspaper at Camille.

Camille clapped her hands. ‘How clever of you, Rodolphe! I see you are looking at a newspaper that doesn't have any pictures. I had no idea you could read!'

‘Oh, I can read all right.' He read aloud in an affected voice. ‘
Mademoiselle Claudel shows a unique gift for sculpture seldom seen in a woman – especially one of such tender years. This critic wishes to inform our esteemed readers of the most exciting new talent to emerge from under the wing of Monsieur Auguste Rodin.
' He threw down the paper. ‘Unique gift, my arse. Who do you think you are? Just in the door and think you're the big noise all of a sudden.'

While he was ranting, I picked up the newspaper and hid it behind my back.

Rodolphe was roaring now, his face puce. ‘I'm twice the stone cutter you are, you stuck-up little bitch!'

Camille squared up to him. ‘Oh really? I must have missed your piece at the Salon. Or, perhaps you didn't have time to submit as you were so busy scratching your hairy…'

‘Mademoiselle Claudel!' Jules Desbois slammed the courtyard doors behind him.

Camille was the picture of innocence. ‘
Oui, Monsieur?
'

‘You may be a rising star but there's still a pile of marble waiting to be cut by your oh-so-gifted hands.'

‘
Oui m'sieu
. I'll get straight to it.'

As we walked past Desbois he muttered: ‘You deserve every word in that review, and more. Well done. And that goes for you too, Mademoiselle Lipscomb. For once that fool Breton knows what he's talking about.'

Breton had come sniffing around the studio the day after the
vernissage
, all oily smiles and wringing hands, begging my pardon and if I'd only allow him to view my work. I'd gritted my teeth and shown him around the studio, glad that Camille wasn't there. Now he'd apparently written glowing reviews for both of us. I wondered what had happened to change his mind – and what Georges had had to do with it.

Camille and I hurried inside and once we were safely behind the changing screen, tore open the newspaper to find the reviews. Breton had heaped praise on Camille. And on me, too.

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Lipscomb, another promising pupil leaping from Rodin's stable, shows precision and technical aptitude in
Day Dreams
, her sensitive and exquisitely detailed portrait of a young girl. Surely it is only a matter of time before she joins her talented colleague at next year's Salon?

Exhilarated, I beamed at Camille. We hugged, the humiliation of the first night forgotten.

‘He is right, Jessie, your work is sensitive – it's only a shame he didn't mention your
Giganti
as well.'

I was soaring, high above the clouds, on wings. Nothing could stop us now: Jessie Lipscomb and Camille Claudel, up-and-coming artists. This was only the beginning. ‘I'm going to submit
Giganti
for the Royal Academy next summer.' I clasped Camille's hands. ‘I know what – why don't we show together, both
Gigantis
. It would give the London critics something to talk about.'

She frowned. ‘Me? In England?'

‘Why not? You can stay with my family and we'll take the train down to London. It would be an adventure.'

I waited while she fumbled in the pocket of her dustcoat for her cigarettes. She lit two and handed me one. She squinted at me through the smoke and grinned.

I opened my mouth in a silent scream of excitement. ‘You'll come?'

She laughed and embraced me. ‘
Mais oui
. How could I resist the sight of all those prim English ladies ogling my gorgeous
Giganti
?'

It was settled: Camille and I would spend the following summer together – the whole summer! I couldn't wait to introduce her to Ma and Papa and show her around Wootton House, with its gardens, where we could talk and work under the shade of the elm trees. I imagined a cool English breeze ruffling my hair, sunlight dappling Camille's face as we sketched side by side.

‘Come on, dreamer,' she pulled me to my feet. ‘We've got work to do in Paris first.' She tied back her curls, her hands busy behind her head, and said: ‘Hurry, Jessie, we don't want to give that
fils de pute
Rodolphe an excuse to say we're passengers on board Rodin's mighty ship.'

‘I don't think he'd put it quite that eloquently,' I said.

‘
C'est vrai
. He can't open that big mouth of his without speaking about arses. It's an unfortunate affliction.'

Laughing, we climbed the scaffolding around
The Gates
. At first we couldn't resist looking across at each other with wide grins, but soon we became absorbed in our work. When Georges sauntered in at lunchtime I was finishing off a veil that flowed from a tormented soul as she plunged towards the waiting arms of her adulterous lover. Camille was holding an arched foot, teasing out the detail on splayed toes that seemed to grip the air.

Georges called up to us: ‘
Allô!
I don't suppose you two will consider having lunch with me, now that you're famous?'

Camille threw a rag at him from her perch. ‘I think we should buy you lunch, d'Artagnan.' She climbed down and faced him, fists on her hips. ‘I don't know what you said to that critic to stop his dirty mouth, but I'm grateful.' She pulled him down by the ears and kissed him noisily on the lips.

He laughed and smoothed his hair. ‘What? No punches? And I wore my extra-thick jacket as a precaution.' He looked up into the gloom, shading his eyes. ‘And where's the sensitive and exquisitely detailed Jessie?'

I waved and blew him a kiss as I made my way down. I had decided to forgive him his machinations, or at least pretend indifference. And I was beginning to think that William should not have assumed the worst from reading what was, after all, my private correspondence.

Georges fanned his face. ‘I'm overcome. That's two kisses. I wonder what would happen if I'd saved your lives?' He closed his eyes and pretended to shudder. Camille aimed a fist at his arm. ‘Ow! Camille! Allow me to compliment you on your pugilistic prowess, as Monsieur Breton might say. In other words, you can fairly pack a punch. For a girl, that is.'

When Camille had gone behind the changing screen, I said: ‘Georges, what did you do when you found Breton? You didn't hurt him, did you?'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You overestimate me. Let's just say I know his mistress. She's an old flame, which I threatened to rekindle if he spread any vicious rumours about Camille.'

I was crestfallen. ‘So he didn't mean what he wrote?'

‘Oh he admitted Camille's work was superlative and I don't doubt he was genuinely impressed by your work when he saw it. But before I sorted him out, he was more interested in spreading gossip. That
connard
is not above ruining a woman's reputation out of spite.'

‘Thank you, Georges.' I put my hand on his and smiled.

‘I would do anything for you, Jessie.'

He pushed me behind Rodin's
The Kiss
and put his arms around me. I let the last of my resistance evaporate. I had lost William; there was nothing left to lose.

I put a hand on his chest. ‘Not so fast, d'Artagnan. What would have happened if this
connard
had refused? Would you have carried out your threat?'

He edged closer. ‘What do you mean?'

‘The old flame.'

‘What do you think?' He bent his head to kiss me and I stepped aside, laughing.

‘That's enough kisses for one day. Even for a hero.' If he could play games with me, perhaps it was time I had a little fun of my own.

He picked up my hand, turned it around and kissed my palm. ‘I've been patient, but it's time to cut to the chase.'

I tried to say something but he moved in swiftly and kissed me, until I stopped caring about what was right and what was wrong. What did it matter? I told myself. I was in Paris.

Finally, I pulled away and smiled to see his breath rising so quickly in his chest. We went out into the street and Camille joined us. The sun was high in the sky, the cobbles so hot I could feel them through the soles of my shoes. I tilted my boater to keep off the glare and closed my eyes to listen to the music of Paris: the clatter of hooves from a passing omnibus, snatches of conversations from the café, the hammering of metal against marble, Camille and Georges teasing each other, a young woman singing with happiness.